The Beast (ewert grens)

by Anders Roslund

  He gestured vaguely towards the visitor’s chair. Was it all right to sit down? Ewert, still not uttering, waved distractedly as some kind of invitation.

  ‘I’ve got to tell you this. I actually threw up yesterday. Breakfast, lunch, the lot. Sheer funk. Instead of being handed my most important case on a plate, I’ve ended up having to prosecute a grief-stricken father for shooting at and killing a proven sex murderer. It can only go one way. That is, straight to hell. You don’t have to be a genius to work that out.’

  Ewert shook his head, cackled briefly with laughter and spoke for the first time.

  ‘Serves you right.’

  Ågestam counted the seconds, his old trick in situations like this. Thirteen seconds. That mean old bastard must surely see that he was on top now, was being deferred to.

  ‘I’m going to push for a life sentence.’

  He really stuck his neck out and it worked.

  ‘Say that again?’

  ‘You heard me. I’m not going to stand for anybody appointing himself judge and jury.’

  ‘Why tell me? What’s the fucking point you’re making?’

  ‘No special reason. Well, I wanted to find someone to tell my ideas to. To test them.’

  Ewert cackled again.

  ‘Still scrabbling to get up the greasy pole, eh? Life, was that what you said?’

  ‘Aha. Yes.’

  ‘You know, half the punters who end up in prison have committed one or more violent acts. Fucking idiots to a man, but still human beings. And victims as well; almost all of them have been abused one way or the other, usually by their parents. Even I can see where that might lead.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Book learning. You should be out there, seeing for yourself.’

  Ågestam leafed through his notebook.

  ‘Steffansson freely admitted that he planned the murder over the course of four days. He had time to reconsider, but didn’t. Not just judge and jury, he had to be the executioner as well.’

  ‘Planned, yes. But plans fail. He couldn’t be sure he’d find Lund.’

  ‘When he did, he still had a choice. He could’ve alerted the police. Christ, your officers were on the spot. But that would’ve meant giving up the shooting he had been looking forward to.’

  ‘Sure, sure, he has committed murder. No fucking question about it. But life? No way. Unlike you, I’ve seen real action, forty years of it, and that has meant sometimes standing by as worse nutters than Steffansson got off with lesser sentences than that. And I’ve watched hordes of fancy little prosecutors trying to pass themselves off as hard men.’

  Ågestam breathed in deeply and checked his notebook again. He was determined to keep his cool and ignore the man’s clumsy sarcasm. Then it came to him that what was happening was exactly what he wanted. The sour old bugger was cross-examining him. This would work as a kind of pre-trial trial. He smiled, still turning the pages, but without taking in his notes. He could polish his arguments now, muster his evidence. Great, he liked it, just like an exam oral.

  The pause, maybe his smile, had irritated Ewert.

  ‘What’s your fucking problem now? Can’t find what to say next from your shitty little book? For your information, this is a case of murder with extenuating circumstances. If pleading life gives you a hard-on, go right ahead. But be ready to settle for eight or ten years. You and I are both part of this society, you’d better put that in your notes, because it’s a society that failed to protect Marie Steffansson. And other kids.’

  ‘I grasp the point you’re making, of course. But does this failure by society justify the summary execution of a presumed sex killer? Consider the possibility that the victim was innocent, at least in this particular case. You know sod all about it, and - more to the point - Steffansson knows sod all about what the man he was shooting at was up to. Think again. Do you really think it is right to kill Lund because he is seen near the site of the crime? Is that the society you’d like to police? Where people take the law into their own hands, DIY executions and all? It will certainly make a change. The laws I learned about don’t include anything about a death penalty. We are responsible, Grens. We must demonstrate that in our kind of society, anyone who acts like Steffansson will be locked up. For life. Grieving dad or not.’

  Silence. Then the murmur of a Mediterranean-style ceiling fan stopped and the silence became so profound that for the first time Ågestam actually noticed the fan’s existence.

  He looked at it and then at the elderly man behind the desk. His lined face spoke of a bitterness, a deep-seated fear, that drove both his withdrawal from other people and his aggression towards them. What was the cause? Why was Grens so ready to reject, so prone to swear and accuse and insult? DCI Grens was well known nationally. Already at university Lars had heard the stories about him, the policeman who walked alone, but was better at his job than most. Now, having met the man, he was no longer convinced.

  All he saw was a pathetic old sod who had painted himself into a corner socially and had to put up with the consequences, isolated and angry.

  I don’t want to become like Grens, it’s a grim state of mind, he thought, almost as grim as being totally solitary.

  Ewert turned over the CD, a flimsy piece of plastic holding twenty-seven tracks. His fingers left greasy marks on the shiny surface.

  ‘Is that it? Are you done?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Fine. When you leave, take this with you. I haven’t got the right kit for playing it.’

  Ågestam shook his head.

  ‘It’s a gift. It’s yours now. If you have no use for it, throw it away.’

  The elderly man put down the silent piece of plastic.

  Today was the Wednesday of the second week since Lund’s escape. Two guards had been badly beaten up.

  A little girl had died. Her killer had died.

  Her father was in custody awaiting trial. He would get prison for life if that poncy little prosecutor got his way.

  Sometimes Grens didn’t want to be around anymore. He almost longed for when it would all be over.

  Dead bodies are worse in hot weather. Sven was reminded of the kind of nature films that he had come to detest. Overbearing voiceovers guide the viewers though sun-baked African landscapes, flies buzz round the microphone and, sooner or later, some kind of furry predator starts running after its prey, jumps and bites its throat, rips the flesh off its bones, gulping down anything edible until sated and ready to amble into the long grass to sleep, leaving the bloody, rotting carcass behind for the flies and the heat to consume it until nothing is left.

  Every time he had to attend an autopsy such images haunted him with an inevitability he dreaded. In this place, barely a week ago, he and Ewert had observed the meaninglessly peaceful face of a little girl whose body had been ripped apart. He had not had to watch the damage done to her, he had been allowed to look away in an attempt not to face the lack of meaning all over again.

  Perhaps that was why she had seemed so unreal. Far too young to die, still promising so much life. He couldn’t help remembering her tiny feet, their sadistic cleanliness.

  Ewert’s concerned voice, without a trace of sarcasm, brought him back to the present.

  ‘Hey, Sven. How are things?’

  ‘This place gives me the creeps. I can’t help it. Errfors seems a perfectly nice, normal bloke, so why did he pick this hellhole for his place of work? How does he stand it? Rooting around in cadavers. What kind of a life is that?’

  They were walking through the central archive, past sliding metal shelving packed with files, folders, boxes. It was a vast catalogue of death. The dead had become lines on paper, arrayed in alphabetical order. Sven had been here once before, he and a young medic who had helped him in a search. He hoped he’d never have to do it again, these data searches made him think uneasily about interfering with graves.

  Ludvig Errfors was waiting for them in the same autopsy room as before. He was in civvies, no steri
le wraps, and as jolly and easy-going as ever.

  ‘It’s quite spooky, you know. I dealt with the victims in the Skarpholm case, then with the Steffansson girl, and here I am doing the PM on their killer.’

  Ewert slapped the dead man’s leg lightly.

  ‘This monster was bound to end up here. But you feel sure he did it this time?’

  ‘As I said last week, the MO was as good as identical with the Skarpholm case. Gross violation. I’ve been doing this job for longer than they advise anyone should, and I must say, I haven’t seen anything like it. Not towards a child.’

  ‘But you’ll get your conclusive proof,’ he went on, pointing at the body. ‘In time for the trial we’ll have checked the DNA in a semen sample and compared it with samples taken from the victims’ bodies. You and the judges and so forth will get the data, in black and white.’

  ‘The prosecutor lad is going for life. For Steffansson.’ Ewert paused, looked at the surprised faces. ‘Oh, yes. Trying to grow into his posh suit.’

  Errfors pushed the trolley into the circle of strong light, then remembered about Sven.

  ‘I believe you took it a bit badly last time,’ he said with a kind smile. ‘This body is rather mauled, so maybe you’d better look away for a moment.’

  After registering a quick nod from Ewert, Sven turned away.

  ‘Obviously, the face is well and truly gone,’ Errfors was saying. ‘One of Steffansson’s bullets hit the forehead, with explosive effect. The teeth were reasonably intact, so we could identify him from his dental record.’

  He adjusted the light to illuminate the lower torso.

  ‘The other bullet hit his hip. It seems to have been the first shot. The pelvic bone is partly shattered. The bullet went straight through the body, here. The two impact wounds fit with what the witnesses said about having heard two bangs. That’s it. We’ve finished now.’

  Sven turned back to the shrouded body. He remembered Lund’s face. What was the point of being Lund, of living with such sickness? If you must destroy your own species, do you still have the right to be counted as a human being? In this building, prompted by the presence of all the lifeless bodies, Sven felt unable to escape these apparently unanswerable questions.

  They got ready to leave.

  ‘Before you go, I think you’d want to see these. I kept them for you. Here. I found them on Lund’s body when I undressed it.’

  A handgun. A knife. Two photographs. A hand-written note.

  ‘The gun, you’ll be able to check it out, was in a holster strapped to his lower leg. The knife was also in a strap-on holster, on his forearm this time. By the way, this type of knife is new to me. The edge is exceptionally sharp.’

  Ewert took charge of the plastic bags with the weapons. So Lund had been armed, prepared to defend himself.

  ‘Fancy that young idiot going for life. Banging up someone who rid the land of an armed crazy, out hunting little girls.’

  Sven took the bags with the photos and piece of paper. He looked at them under the light and was still staring at the amateurish images when he started to speak.

  ‘New photos, these. Little girls, same ones on both pics. Photographed outside the nursery school where Lund was lurking when he got shot. Seems that the girls went to that school. We’ll confirm it of course, but it’s likely.’

  Ewert wanted to see.

  ‘Christ, look at this. Lund must’ve made a note of their names. It looks like he wanted two victims this time too.’

  He looked at the photographs once more. Two little girls, about the same age as Marie Steffansson, blonde hair bleached by the summer sun, sitting on the edge of a sandpit, smiling towards life. He cackled, as he had when speaking to Ågestam earlier that day.

  ‘What have we got here? Proof that Steffansson saved the lives of two children by killing Lund. It’s thanks to the accused that two sweet six-year-olds can still smile today.’

  Then he did the weird thing that Sven had observed before, slapped the body on the trolley, pinched it and shook it a bit, mumbling inaudibly with his head turned away.

  Bengt Söderlund and his family were spending the summer holidays at home for the fifth year running. Once they’d tried Gotland, the lovely island everyone talked about, but never again. Hiring the cottage was expensive, it rained all the time, there was nothing to do and the week they had paid for seemed endless. The following year they hired a cottage in Ystad on the south coast instead, but the whole place was windy and dead flat. They travelled around a bit but Osterlen looked just the same, so that was that, no need to go back for more. Two years in a caravan, but what with gridlocked roads and kids who wouldn’t go to sleep that was a wash-out, and then, to cap it all, that stay on Rhodes in a nightmare heatwave lasting the entire fortnight, well, thanks, but no thanks. They had figured a city break in Stockholm might be a good idea, but even that was a disappointment; the place was packed with crazed townies, the types who walk up escalators.

  They had agreed that enough was enough. Staying at home meant Bengt could keep an eye on the business. It was good for family life too. They could take the kids swimming in the lake, go for walks in peace, even get some sex in peace when the girls were away on sleepovers with their friends. And they could see more of their own friends, drink coffee in the garden, have folks round for supper once in a while.

  Bengt and Elisabeth were drinking morning coffee when Ove and Helena came strolling past their open kitchen window. They waved. Come in! Time for elevenses, coffee and cinnamon rolls, two each. Ove and Helena were easy to get on with. Almost ten years ago now, things had become tense for a while, just a silly episode at a party when Ove and Elisabeth had ended up doing rather more than holding hands. The coolness between the couples lasted until it dawned on everyone that Tallbacka was too small to hide in. They had a shouting match, it cleared the air and afterwards they tacitly agreed to bury the whole affair. Both Ove and Elisabeth had had a bit too much to drink, but it had been a harmless fling; neither had had the slightest intention of ruining their marriages.

  Ove had brought a morning paper and over the coffee and buns the four of them started talking about the case that dominated that national news. Now that the Russian plane accident had been sorted, the headlines were all about the paedophile who had killed a little girl, and the dad who then shot his daughter’s killer. They could all engage with this; the girl and the dad were part of every family in the land.

  In fact, since the first reports of the crime, they had talked about this story whenever they’d met. All, that is, except Elisabeth. She fell silent every time, and when they asked her why, she said they were getting far too excited and far too angry and it was no good. They tried to persuade her, but when she still would have none of it, they carried on regardless. Getting excited was no crime, and if she wasn’t interested, too bad.

  Now it was all cosy and familiar.

  Bengt poured the coffee, dark-roast, its scent filling the kitchen. There was real cream with it, and the buns of course, saved since yesterday to give them the dry, crispy crust that made them especially nice to dunk in coffee.

  Then he pointed at the passport photo of Fredrik Steffansson that the papers had used since his arrest.

  ‘That guy. I’d have done the same. Wouldn’t have thought twice.’

  Ove soaked a piece of bun in his mug.

  ‘Me too. You know, if you’ve girls in the house that’s it, you’ve to think like he did.’

  Bengt examined the page in the paper closely.

  ‘But I wouldn’t have done it just because of what he said, you know, because he was thinking of other kids. I would’ve done it for me. To get my own back.’

  He looked at the people round the table to gauge their reactions. Both Ove and Helena nodded. Elisabeth stuck her tongue out.

  ‘Are you crazy? What’s that for?’

  ‘I’m fed up with you lot. All you ever do is jabber on and on, morning, noon and night. Flasher-Göran, paedophiles, always t
he same stuff. Every time we meet. Hate, hate, hate.’

  ‘Bugger off then. You don’t have to stay.’

  ‘I mean, listen to you! It’s just crap. Revenge for what? All Göran ever did was stand naked next to the flagpole. He didn’t touch anyone. What’s the harm in that?’ Elisabeth breathed out in a sob, and after clearing her throat to steady her voice, her eyes were still shining with tears. ‘I don’t seem to know you any more. You sit in my kitchen pretending to care, but you’re just spoiling for a fight. I’ve had enough! You’re pathetic!’

  Helena put her mug down and grasped Elisabeth’s hand.

  ‘Hey, Elisabeth. Calm down.’

  Defiantly, Elisabeth pulled her hand away.

  ‘Let her piss off if that’s what she wants. She must like them, the paedophiles. Eh? Is that it?’ Bengt raised his voice and turned to his wife. ‘I’ve worked my whole life, slaved like a fucking dog. And the society I live in locks up someone who’s saved children’s lives! But I don’t deserve any better. Is that how you see it?’

  He turned to the window and spat. And heard a door open.

  He knew just which door.

  ‘Fuck’s sake. That’s him, that sodding pervert. He’s going out.’

  Flasher-Göran was locking his front door. Bengt looked round at Elisabeth.

  ‘Pathetic? Wasn’t that what you said?’

  Then he stuck his head out through the window.

  ‘You deaf or something?’ he roared. ‘I don’t want to see you. Stay inside. Filthy swine!’

  Göran looked towards the familiar voice, and continued walking down the gravel path to the gate. Bengt snapped his fingers, twice.

  His Rottweiler came padding along obediently.

  ‘Baxter. Come.’

  The dog ran up to the window to stand by his master. Bengt grabbed its collar, held it, then let go with a sudden command.

  ‘Baxter! Go! Get him!’

  The big dog leapt out through the window, ran across the lawn and jumped the fence to the garden next door, barking loudly as it went. Göran heard it and realised what was happening. His heart started thumping with fear. He ran. The garden shed was the nearest safe place. His stomach was out of order, he couldn’t control it, he shat himself, ran the last bit with faeces trickling down his legs, grabbed the door handle, got inside, pulled the door shut. The dog threw itself against the door, barking excitedly.